


Morning Lights (sequel to 'In the darkest hour')

by songsaboutdrowning



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsaboutdrowning/pseuds/songsaboutdrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florence is newly single and going mad from unrequited lust for Isa. I would recommend reading 'In the darkest hour' first. (<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/572310">link</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Lights (sequel to 'In the darkest hour')

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was... a long time coming. I've pondered more about my choices for this than most of the Hogwarts plot, tbh. You wouldn't think so since this is so smutty. But I hope I did the first part justice - so many of you loved it because it was so 'different' and I hope this doesn't depreciate it. I was always going to end the story like this - it just didn't seem right to do so in that first episode.

When she wakes up, she is spooning Isa, right arm around her waist, her small form nestled in the curve of Florence's body like a Russian doll. She feels like she hasn't slept at all, drifting in and out of consciousness for the whole night. At least that means there were no dreams to battle – sexual or otherwise. She runs the events of last night through her head again, trying to find a turning point, where things could have gone differently.

_If she hadn't said the wrong name._

_If she hadn't agreed to sex when really, she didn't feel like it_ too _much._

_If she hadn't had these stupid desires to deal with in the first place._

She looks down at the the top of Isa's head just under her nose – she set an alarm last night, why hasn't it rung? As she tries to crane her neck towards the bedside table just enough that she doesn't have to move any other part of her body, Isa is roused from her sleep; her hand rests briefly on top of Florence's before turning around and looking up at her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, and for a moment _she_ looks like the friend in need, all bleary eyes and matted hair, but her first concern is Florence, it's always Florence.

 _How_ should _I feel?_ , thinks Florence, what's the expected response to her actions? She should be distraught; lonely; heartbroken. She chooses the only truthful word that comes to mind, but she can't avoid it sounding like a question still.

“Relieved?” She needs to stop Isa from asking more questions; in haste to change the subject, she immediately adds, “Have we got a show tonight?”

“Nope. Bus transfer to Canada. We have to be checked out of here by 10.”

“Isa, would you do me a favour please? Would you tell the others me and James have broken up? I really don't want to be dealing with sympathy today.” _I don't deserve sympathy,_ she mentally adds, _I wanted this. I just never mentioned I did._

Isabella nods.

The alarm goes off.

===

Travelling during the daytime means they don't get the fancy tour bus with the bunk beds. There's a kitchen and toilets and a common area, but there is no secluded space where she can just curl up and pretend to be alone in the world and she feels so trapped she wants to smash the windows with her bare fists. She sits right at the front, so she doesn't have to look at anyone - out of sight, out of mind, she can pretend they're just not there, like when she was little and she'd cover her eyes, thinking it made her invisible. The headphones come on, hard basslines are needed to drown out the noise and focus on the problem at hand.

Her feelings for Isa are out of control and she wonders how this has stemmed from one brief “what if” moment, from a single nighttime vision that turned into two and three and four.

It started with a dream: a legitimate dream, not an open-eyed fantasy. It started with an angry Isa giving her an angry kiss, something she thought only existed in romantic comedies, not real life. Not that the dream was real life; but to her it's as real as her flesh and bones. To her, it has happened and now she wants those lips again, she wants those hands, the hands that pushed her up against a wall and slid under her dress so quickly, Florence couldn't even get her bearings. She wants the mouth, the teeth that bit into her neck and she wants to close her eyes and see blue sparks behind her eyelids and she wants to think 'Wow, I've never been so wet in my entire life'.

It isn't real. None of it is. When Isa touched her, she was opened and unlocked. but in real life, they know everything about each other except what makes them scream in pleasure and sigh and gasp and lose their breath; what makes them whisper “ _More..._ ” to the dead of the night; what they wouldn't reveal to anyone, not even on their deathbed. Their dreams and their fantasies and their secrets and their sins. She wants to know all of it. All of it; _in real life_. And she knows that this classes as obsessive behaviour, and she knows that nothing will never be enough, because she is Florence Welch, the girl who always wants too much.

The first time she slept with a girl, she was drunk and didn't know what she was doing. The second time, she was also drunk, but she initiated it. In fairness, it's never been brought on by an attraction longer than a few minutes or hours, yet here she is, weeks later, clinging for dear life to the one time she kissed Isa on a dare.

Why is it that she's making special provisions for herself? If Sophie told her she’s fantasised about her again and again and _again_ , Florence would be horrified. Not flattered; not amused; just horrified. But this is Isa, and Isa has the softest lips she's ever touched, and the rules of reason don't apply to her. This is Isa who's now sitting at the back of the bus, probably worrying herself silly but pretending that nothing's wrong. This is Isa who she needs, in her bed (naked or dressed, it doesn't matter), in her _life_. It's Isa who would probably run for her life if she found out just how big a part she's actually played in this break-up.

===

It's Isa who stays behind when the bus pulls up outside of a fancy hotel. Florence watches the backs of her band mates and crew members step off one by one, and she knows even without turning around that Isa will be last: predictably, she stops in the aisle instead of following everyone else into the hotel lobby.

“You coming?” She asks. She's neither smiling nor frowning but Florence can sense that she's not going to move until she gets a reply. Then again, they're going to have to get off at some point before the driver starts yelling at them and comments on how famous people act like spoilt brats.

It's still early – still afternoon, a time when after a quick spot decorating their hotel room they'd normally go for a run, come back for a shower and then decide where to have dinner. All Florence wants to do, is crawl her way from this bus seat to a bed or an armchair or any other cozy surface and just be alone with herself. Or with Isa – she's the one exception to her otherwise violent need for loneliness.

“Do you want to go explore?”

How long has Isa been waiting for a sign of life from her? Bloody hell. She remembers this is not a dream and interaction is expected of her; she shakes her head.

"I want an early night."

She knows as she says it that it's quite unlike her, that sulky briskness. She'd normally be first in line to the bar, ready to drown her sorrows with drinks and tell herself she hasn't really lost much anyway. But this is different. She has lost _something_ : she's lost her integrity. And her mind, probably, which is now quite stubbornly proceeding on one very specific track.

“Isa? Will you sleep in my room tonight?”

Florence looks up with what she hopes are puppy dog eyes – it takes a split second to remember she is wearing huge sunglasses and Isa can't properly see her face anyway. In fact, Isa is turning towards the exit now, and even though she's still not rushing to go, it looks like something's annoying her.

“Why do they even bother booking us into separate rooms anyway? It would save so much money,” she comments.

It's because on paper they need privacy, Florence thinks. They have the right to bring someone back to their bed, or buy porn on pay per view or do drugs whatever it is that rockstars do nowadays, except the last time someone other than Isa was in _her_ hotel room, the consequences had been disastrous.

Florence gives a little shrug. With enormous effort, she gets up and follows Isa down the steps and out into the real world.

===

A new hotel room. A new hotel bed. It's ok because there are no memories in this bed. Even though so many of these rooms look the same, Flo will do her utmost to make each one different and fresh. She has one small suitcase that she secretly reserves for decorations. Shawls come out, scarves, and dresses in multi-coloured patterned prints. They rest on lamps, cover the tv, hang from the wardrobe door. She realises she hasn't even thought all day about where James is. They left him behind, in the States. He was supposed to travel with them today. He is probably arranging a very expensive, unplanned flight back home right now.

Tonight, Isa will sleep here with her and nothing bad will happen.

A thought.

_I really should tell her._

Those are the rules: when everything seems ok, make things bad for yourself; self-sabotage; create the worst situation you could possibly be in. Florence isn't sure why she does it, she wouldn't say she has a love of risk and yet she always finds herself seeking out strong emotions, this fear that feels like she's standing on the edge of a chasm looking down and anything could happen.

All she knows is that before she can stop herself, the words leave her mouth. Dreadful words, that should never be pronounced.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

This happens at about 8pm, when everyone is out having a meal except for them. They've ordered room service and eaten cross-legged on the bed. Their trays are now abandoned on top of the desk in their room and they've changed into their pyjamas and crawled under the covers, watching MTV and taking a trip down memory lane with all the number ones of the early Nineties.

“Course you can.”

Isa turns to look at Florence and gives an encouraging smile. This is it, the waterworks should come any minute now. Florence tends to be buttoned-up about her relationships, until something goes wrong and then Isa finds out all sorts of things that weren't quite as perfect as they looked from the outside. She wishes Flo would discuss these problems while they can still be helped, but she never does. In this particular case, Isa is ready to reassure her that it's ok to want different things at different times, and if she wasn't really in love and she'd rather date a girl right now, there is nothing wrong with that. Even though, surely, Florence knows that, sometimes it's nice just to be reminded.

“It's about last night.”

Isa mutes the tv and takes Flo's left hand in her right, and suddenly she knows what's coming next before Florence even speaks the words. A sinking feeling in her chest tells her she doesn't want to hear this. _Please let the problem only be about Florence missing sex with girls, please, please, please._

“See where I, uhm, said a girl's name in bed? I feel like, uhm, for love of truth, really, more than anything else, I feel like I need to give you the whole picture, I'd feel like I'm lying to you otherwise.”

If she could mind-control Flo not to finish the sentence, she would right now. For a brief, eternal moment she thinks _you'd better be talking about me or else_ and she's so surprised at those words in her own head that she starts shaking in time with a mantra of _what does this mean?_

The tight smile that she offers is no longer one of support. It says _Please don't open that can of worms._

“It was your name I said.”

So she _hasn't_ just been imagining things; sometimes she looks at Flo's body language and it feels like Florence is undressing her with her eyes. More than that; it feels like she's eating her alive, just by looking at her. And now, not only are her suspicions being confirmed, but things are resurfacing that shouldn't, thoughts that were dormant are now disturbing the peace. It's not like Isa has never thought of this herself. But the last time she did was over two years ago. She drowned it in Mai Tais and made herself stop. The fantasies never came back.

And now they have. A tidal wave of memories washing over her, it makes her shudder, like she's opened the windows right in the middle of a snowstorm. She needs to buy some time. Ask questions. Put the focus back on Flo; Flo's feelings; her own feelings don't matter. They can be pushed down, down where no one will hear them.

“Has that ever happened before? You thinking of me during, uhm...” _Sex, Isabella, it's three letters. You can say it._

“Yes.” Florence cringes at her own, monosillabic response. She closes her eyes like a child awaiting punishment; like she can't watch. Like a train or a bus or a fucking spaceship are about to hit her at full speed and she can't move.

“How long has it been going on?” Isabella's throat dries up. She's looking straight at Florence, but somehow, she is looking past her, through her almost. She's looking at the window on the right hand side of the room and the sun is setting and her ears are ringing and she really wishes this conversation wasn't happening right now.

“A few weeks? I just – I had these dreams. At night. Time and time again and I guess I... became quite _fond_ of the idea.”

This could have consequences – no, this _will_ have consequences. Only, they could be good or bad and right now, Isa doesn't know which it is. Nine years they've known each other. Who throws nine years down the drain just because of a few dreams? Why couldn't Florence just push those thoughts away like Isa had? Why did she have to be selfish and put her cards on the table?

“I'm sorry.”

Florence's voice suddenly transports Isa back to reality. She's not alone with her thoughts – much as she'd like to be. It's time for the wise Isabella to make a reappearance. The one that says sensible things, the one that makes people feel better, just like she did last night. _'_ It doesn't matter if you want a girl, Florence', yes, it _does_ when you are that girl and you don't know what you want yourself.

“You can't apologise for dreams, Flo. It's your subconscious. You didn't really choose for this to happen.”

'Maybe at first', Florence wishes she could say. But one dream, two dreams, had turned into lucid daydreaming. It became more than just conscious: it became _intentional_. The glances she stole when Isa came out of the shower and thought she wasn't looking; all the nights she'd touched herself and imagined it was Isa's hand running up and down her thigh; she'd been the one to start the spooning habit, too, always hoping it would evolve into something more.

“What did I do, anyway, in these dreams?” The curiosity is too strong not to ask, the magnetic pull into those sad green eyes and their big revelation.

“It started off angry,” Florence explains, "kinda like those scenes in the movies where you're just so mad at someone you suddenly kiss them. You did that to me," she adds. "You pinned me up against a wall and I kissed you back. That was it, at first."

"And then?"

"Then another night, this was kind of out of context, but we were on a sofa, and for some reason, you climbed on top of me, and..." she trails off. She can't bring herself to say it. Her cheeks are so wildly flushed she feels like she's suffocating from her own embarrassment.

Isa extends a hand as if to touch her - her fingers almost brush Flo's collarbones - but she changes her mind and retracts it.

"Go on," she urges, her voice husky. The story is drawing her in, she needs to know what happens next, predictable as it may be.

"I just want to know what it would feel like if you touched me, Isa, ok?" she chokes on her own breath, her own desire. Her desperation. "I've experienced it so many times it's like I know it, except I don't. It was just my imagination and I want it to happen for real."

“So you just have an itch to scratch?” Isa asks; her voice breaks at the end of the question, it's almost like she's hurt.

“Hey.” All the negative feelings vanish for a moment, while reassuring Isa takes priority. Florence's pitch lowers, she slows down, and her next words are coated in sweetness and honesty. “I don't know why I started thinking these things, but if I had an itch to scratch, I could just go to whatever club in whatever town we're in and pull someone. I want _you_. I'm sorry. I realise how that sounds. I know you're embarrassed. I don't want to ruin our friendship.”

A moment of silence as Isa decides her next move. This would be a good time to lighten the mood.

“You know what's funny about all this? You seem to have me down as some incredible sex fiend. I've never even fucked a girl.”

“You haven't?” She's shrill again, now; the inner child makes a comeback.

Isa chuckles nervously. “Well, not _technically_.”

“Really. What about that blonde girl at Rob’s party last year?”

“Yeah, what I meant is, uhm... I've never really done any... active work before.”

Isa just wants the ground to open up and swallow her whole. They _really_ need to speak about their sex lives more often. Twice Isa has slept with girls. _Twice_. She's hardly an expert. And both times, these girls touched her and made her come in ways she didn't think possible, but they didn't quite expect her to return the favour.

"And the thing is, Flo," an audible gulp. It tumbles out before she even realises what she's saying, and it's like no time has passed at all since the day she decided she wasn't going to think about this anymore, "you make me want to."

Where did that come from? Talk about taking a leap of faith.

"I _what_?"

"You make me want to. I want to be that person for you. The Isa from the dreams. I don't want you sleeping with someone you don't really love, just because it's what people expect you to do. I want to make you happy and it's in my power to make you happy so that's what I'm gonna do. Do you know what I mean?"

"Have you got any idea how much could go wrong, Isa? A _whole fucking lot._ How long have we known each other?"

Long enough to have shared meals, beds, showers, songs, rehearsals, road trips, camping tents. Long enough that despite Flo's ineptitude with technology and anything concrete, Isa’s number is the only one she knows off by heart, so if she's caught in a storm, she can call her. Real or metaphorical, she can call her. Heartache, cramps or simply a hangover. Isa is there, and happy to be. Why should this be any different?

Florence is gorgeous and needy and fair enough, a little high maintenance, but knowing that she's at the top of her wishlist – finally, _finally_ , even if it _is_ happening two years too late - makes Isa feel like she's on drugs. It lures her in like a predator and she feels like she wants to face it; she wants to experience it and come out victorious.

They have bared their souls to each other so many times, in writing, in songs. This really is the ultimate step, the one way they haven't connected yet. If they go through with it, there will be no secrets left whatsoever; not a single thought will be unspoken. What's more intimate? Sharing your mind or sharing your body? What's more regrettable?

Isabella is enveloped in a daze, like her actions aren't her own, when she leans in close to Florence and whispers sultrily in her ear: "Tell me what to do. Tell me what Isa from the dreams would do right now.” Her finger is travelling idly from Flo's collarbone, down between her breasts, to her stomach, and back up. A finger turns into a full hand and the hand grasps her breast; a thumb flicks Flo's nipple again and again from over her t-shirt.

"Isa, _no_ ," Florence doesn't know what she wants anymore, she thinks of the times this has happened in her head, there was the sofa, yes, there was the inside of a lift and the floor of the shloft and it was real and the things she was feeling were real. It cuts off the oxygen to her brain and her body is reacting, her back is arching towards Isa and Isa's hand is under her t-shirt now and her eyes close tight and a single tear escapes.

The hand pushes gently to make her lie down on the bed; something fiddles behind her back - more fingers - her bra clasp is undone and she's freed, exposed, Isa's mouth is on her skin, her hot tongue is on her nipple and Florence sees lights behind her eyelids. This isn't happening. It isn't really happening.

Anything at this point is game to make Isa stop and think about what she's doing, because she's sure as hell not acting like herself right now, giving in to some base instinct she didn't even know she had.

“What are you thinking?” Florence manages to verbalise, unsure if it's going to wake Isa up from this possession, or if she will answer but keep moving her hand at the same time.

“Wondering why this doesn't feel weird.” Isa's speaking against her skin now, unable to look her in the eye.

“That's a good question,” She answers. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I'm ok, Flo.”

She can feel Isa's lips moving as she says those words, her face and her fingertips both resting in the hollow of her breasts. She can feel Isa's breath, humid, warm, reaching through layers of bone and muscle, melting her insides as her chest constricts with the magnitude of what's going on. She looks down at the top of Isabella's head, the only part of her she can really see right now. She cannot quite believe those words have come from her. _It doesn't feel weird. And she doesn't want to stop._

As a desperate, last attempt, Florence clears her throat and says as firmly as she can, “I love you.” She really means _I'm not using you._ If they're going to go through with this, it needs to be for the right reasons.

“I know”, Isa mumbles in response, and that answers both the said and the unsaid.

Her breathing is erratic when Isa's hand slips further down, and she can't say anything any more, not 'stop' or 'slow down' or 'are you sure' because everything is feeling and touch and nerve endings and nothing is rational thought. Isa's nail grazes the bottom of her knickers, finding damp swollenness through the lace.

The thought flashes white, like a stab wound to Isa's brain, _is it just the thrill of the situation that makes her feel like this, or is it_ me _?_

As if on cue, Florence takes a moment to just hold Isa closer. She's radiating so much heat for such a small person and Flo wishes she wasn't wearing clothes but she is. They both are. Although there is only a very thin layer of lace keeping Isa from being inside her right now.

A wave of dark self-consciousness forces Isa to remind Florence, “I haven't done this before. Tell me what you like.”

“You.”

For an awfully corny, clichéd reply, the word seems to fire something up in Isa's stomach - indirectly, it's answered her question - and she lifts herself up on all fours and prays to god that she can get a rhythm going. Looking down at Florence, she still doesn't feel like the one in control. Flo's long fingers grab the nape of her neck as she pulls her down to kiss her hard.

Now, this they've done before. But they were also drunk out of their mind and it was just a game. So many times at gigs Flo has remarked on the fact Isa's a good kisser and it's a little unsettling now to know what other imagery was going on in her head as she said it.

When Isabella pulls away from the kiss she looks down in shock, although whether she's more shocked at Flo's or her own behaviour she doesn't know. Her fingers are rubbing Flo's clit in circles and all she can focus on are Flo's parted lips: her eyes are resolutely closed, but Isa knows that this time Florence is not thinking of anyone else who's not in the room.

She wonders if what she likes will work for Flo, as well – why doesn't this feel _at all_ like when she touches herself? She wonders and worries and feels like the earth is slipping out from underneath her, and there's an urgency and a desperation in her fingers, she can do this and she can do this well and it _will_ live up to all Flo's fantasies. It will.

She leans down, still keeping rhythm. Her hair falls around Flo's face as she whispers in her ear, "What next?"

A sharp intake of breath from Florence signals that she's not really ready to talk about this as it is happening. Or maybe she's simply unable to do two things at once. Isa searches blindly and slips a finger inside and she has to strain to hear it, but Flo quite evidently just said "Oh god, yes".

So this is what Isa has been missing from sex with girls – how a single, sticky finger can make someone ply so completely to her will and make her feel invincible and powerful. The way that Flo's whispers cause her to moan in response and make her go faster and harder. The hunger she has to please her – to make her forget how guys sometimes just think of themselves - she wants to make it worth her while, worth her wait, worth her love. This is her best friend she's known nearly ten years. This is her best friend who for some inexplicable twist of fate started dreaming of being fucked by her. This is her best friend who she wanted to sleep with long before any of this ever happened.

One finger, in and out, that's all it takes for Flo's fantasy to become real, and Isa looks at her face, feels Florence's nails digging into her shoulderblades, pulling her down so they're as close to skin to skin as humanly possible for two fully clothed people. Flo's hand finds her way under her top and in all the commotion, brushes her nipple, making her lose all sense of what she's doing for a moment.

"You're distracting me. Stop." Isa's voice won't raise above a murmur and she finds it weird how it's still only dusk outside but both of them are reduced to whispering like there are people they could wake up; like there's no other possible form of communication in bed. She's always thought Florence would be quite the loud type – oh.

It's the moans that bring her back to reality. They say “Yes, _yes_ , like that”, and she knows she's doing well and she knows not to stop now.

“I’m so close”, are the next words Isa hears. She puts her whole body weight onto her hand and reminds herself to look at Flo's dazed, ecstatic grimace as she comes.

_What the hell is happening... Did I really do this?_

She looks at Flo with concern: her eyes are still shut, her smile has a blissful quality that Isa has only ever known as 'drunk Florence' until now. When she opens her eyes, they are misty, and glint complicitously in the fading daylight.

Flo's lips reach up to kiss her, soft and slow this time. It has the tentativeness of a first kiss. Again and again her lips close over Isa's and Isabella responds, as she keeps telling herself _I'll rationalise this later_. Her hand is still trapped in Florence's pyjama bottoms, and she's giving Flo that look. The look that says, _what am I going to do with you?_

"I know what you're thinking this time." Florence nearly gloats in the oddity of the situation.

"Oh, do you now?" Isa rolls off and she's about to lie on her back, when Flo catches her by the arm and pulls her the other way, too close for comfort and too close for secrets.

"You're wondering how you compared to dream Isa." She gives Isa a knowing smile and buries her face in her hair. Still high from her climax, she wraps her arms around Isabella and squeezes her as tight as she can, like Isa could take off any minute and Florence needs to stop her. She wants her to stay. She needs her to stay. Everything happened so fast.

Even caught in Florence's iron grip, Isa manages to shrug. "Well, you gotta know your competition."

“How can you be in competition with yourself?” Flo exclaims, a little frustrated, but mostly amused. Her mind is boggling trying to remember if she's ever had a conversation more surreal than this one.

“Well, dream Isa's been with lots of girls, from what I hear. And I've only been with one. But that one girl I've been with,” her voice lowers dangerously, like the next words are painful to say, or maybe they're just risky, risky and terrible, “I swear I care more for her than I care for myself.”

“You soppy bitch,” Florence says, but she grins, and giggles bubble up in her chest like the weight of the world has just been lifted from her shoulders. It's happened. In real life. And it was just as hot and wordless and natural as any of the fantasies that she's lived through.

“You know”, she says, biting her lip, the bloody endorphins putting words in her mouth she'd never otherwise have the guts to say, “you're quite talented at this. I enjoyed myself... very much.”

She bursts into that musical, silvery laugh of hers and it bounces off of something in the bedroom, producing a tinny echo. Isa gives a little smile, partly proud, partly awkward. She enjoyed herself, too.

For the amount of questions and wonderment weighing on both their hearts right now, Isa knows that it's ok to caress Florence's cheek. It's ok to kiss her gently, and it's ok to say, "We should do this again."

  
  



End file.
